Preface

Before my mom died, she made two very specific requests of me.

One: don’t quit school.
Two: stay with me until the end.

And, toward the very end, she added one more: “You write about this.”

It wasn’t a command or even a promise – just a request from someone who knew her daughter would eventually need some words to survive all this. So this is me, keeping my word.

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She Died Fast

My mom died of lung cancer in 2020. She was 64 years old. Two weeks after diagnosis, and she was gone.

It was the height of COVID, but that wasn’t what took her. It was five decades of cigarettes and stress and sheer human stubbornness. I never tried to make her quit; you didn’t MAKE my mom do anything. She was too smart, too sarcastic, and way too independent to be bossed around. You could offer an opinion, sure, but she’d likely do the opposite just to prove she could or to prove she was right. By the time her lung cancer was found, it was already terminal. (The irony of being diagnosed with my own cancer years later is not lost on me…)

When she came home from the hospital on hospice care, she planned everything: no machines, no white walls, no hospital smells. She wanted her house, her people, her dog, and her peace. And she got exactly that.

Her house filled with a strange, beautiful mix of laughter and grief. My brother, my husband, her brother and sister, her granddaughters – so many people came by. We took turns swapping stories, making her smile when she had the energy for it. My brother stayed a few nights. My dad, in true Dad form, played a couple of gigs because why not? (Don’t ask. I’ve stopped trying to understand.)

I stayed a few nights too. We talked about the serious stuff – what papers I’d need, what bills to handle, where things were. I took care of her in a way only a daughter can take care of her mother: gently, fiercely, and I didn’t have to pretend that I wasn’t falling apart inside at the thought of a life without her.

That last night was something else entirely though.

She kept trying to get up out of the bed we had set up in the living room for her, saying she had to go. “It’s time for me to travel now,” she kept repeating, but it’s almost as if she wasn’t even fully awake.

My dad and I asked where she was going. She said she didn’t know. We asked who she would see there. She said she wasn’t sure. (For those of you with clinical backgrounds, you likely recognize the signs of impending death. It’s like she followed the textbook those last 24 hours.)

We got her settled back in bed, tucked her under the blankets, with her dog, and told her it was okay. We told her we’d keep things together here, that we’d miss her terribly, but it was okay for her to go, now.

She exhaled, her body finally relaxing. Before she dozed back off, she pointed her finger at me, eyes cloudy but focused enough to find mine, and said, “You write about this.”

That was it. That was her request. Not a promise. Not a dramatic moment. Just my mom, still bossing me around, even at the end. And that was also the last thing she said to me.

The next morning, when no one was looking, she slipped away. Quietly and efficiently, and with no fuss. Exactly how she wanted it.

Days prior, she made me promise two things: I wouldn’t quit school, and I would stay with her until the end.

I was finishing my second bachelor’s degree then, already planning for my master’s. “Don’t you dare quit, don’t you dare use me dying as some lame ass excuse to not finish what you started”. She knew me too well.

I didn’t quit school. I didn’t leave her side until the end. And I didn’t forget what she asked of me.

She had a good death, really. I mean, if you can say there is such a thing. I really hate that she had it so soon. But it was hers and on her terms.

I actually didn’t quit smoking until two years after she died. I know, I know – the irony is thick here. She’d have rolled her eyes and said, “Took you long enough.” And she’d have been right, let’s be honest.

I still call my grief the Terrible Ouch. It took a few years to really come to terms with my grief in the aftermath and all the things that I had to take care of. But it doesn’t fade like I thought it would – it just changes shape. Some days it’s like a gentle wind that I barely know is there, and other days it’s a goddamn sucker punch. It sneaks up on me in the grocery store when I see her favorite beer, or when my daughters do something she’d have bragged about for months.

So here I am, writing about it just like she asked me to, even though it took a while to actually do it.

She died fast. But she died loved. I’m still learning how to live with the Terrible Ouch and still writing. Because my mom told me to.

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Afterword

If you’ve lost someone, talk about them. Out loud and often!
Tell the stories that make people uncomfortable and laugh at the inappropriate moments. Say their name over and over until it feels natural again.

We don’t honor our dead by whispering – we honor them by remembering.

This is how they stay with us and live on. it’s through our words, our humor, our messiness, and our love.

My mom said, “You write about this.”
So I am. As long as I keep writing, she’s still traveling out there somewhere, I hope.

My mom and my oldest circa 2012